"Come to my place, and we will hold a memorial service for the
departed," said Ivanoff to Sanine. The latter nodded his acceptance. On
the way, they bought vodka and hors d'oeuvres, and overtook Yourii
Svarogitsch, who was walking slowly along the boulevard, looking much
depressed.

Semenoff's death had made a confused and painful impression upon him
which he found it necessary, yet almost impossible, to analyse.

"After all, it is simple enough!" said Yourii to himself, endeavouring
to draw a straight, short line in his mind. "Man never existed before
he was born; that does not seem to be terrible nor incomprehensible.
Man's existence ends when he dies. That is equally simple and easy to
comprehend. Death, the complete stoppage of the machine that creates
vital force, is perfectly comprehensible; there is nothing terrible
about it. There was once a boy named Youra who went to college and
fought with his comrades, who amused himself by chopping off the heads
of thistles and lived his own special and interesting life in his own
special way. This Youra died, and in his place quite another man walks
and thinks, the student, Yourii Svarogitsch. If they were to meet,
Youra would not understand Yourii, and might even hate him as a
possible tutor ready to cause him no end of annoyance. Therefore,
between them there is a gulf, and therefore, if the boy Youra is dead,
I am dead myself, though till now I never noticed it. That is how it
is. Quite natural and simple, after all! If one reflects, what do we
lose by dying? Life, at any rate, contains more sadness than happiness.
True it has its pleasures and it is hard to lose them, but death rids
us of so many ills, that in the end we gain by it. That's simple, and
not so terrible, is it?" said Yourii, aloud, with a sigh of relief; but
suddenly he started, as another thought seemed to sting him. "No, a
whole world, full of life and extraordinarily complicated, suddenly
transformed into nothing? No, that is not the transformation of the boy
Youra into Yourii Svarogitsch! That is absurd and revolting, and
therefore terrible and incomprehensible!"

With all his might Yourii strove to form a conception of this state
which no man finds it possible to support, yet which every man
supports, just as Semenoff had done.

"He did not die of fear, either," thought Yourii, smiling at the
strangeness of such a reflection. "No, he was laughing at us all, with
our priest, and our chanting, and tears. How was it that Semenoff could
laugh, knowing that in a few moments all would be at an end? Was he a
hero? No; it was not a question of heroism. Then death is not as
terrible as I thought."

"To say a mass for our departed friend," replied Ivanoff, with brutal
jocularity. "You had better come with us. What's the good of being
always alone?"

Feeling sad and dispirited, Yourii did not find Sanine and Ivanoff as
distasteful to him as usual.

"Very well, I will," he replied, but suddenly recollecting his
superiority, he thought to himself, "what have I really in common with
such fellows? Am I to drink their vodka, and talk commonplaces?"

He was on the point of turning back, but he felt such an utter horror
of solitude that he went along with them. Ivanoff and Sanine proffered
no remarks, and thus in silence they reached the former's lodging. It
was already quite dark. At the door, the figure of a man could be dimly
seen. He had a thick stick with a crooked handle.

"Yes! that's he!" replied the figure, in a deep, resonant voice. Yourii
remembered that Ivanoff's uncle was an old, drunken church chorister.
He had a grey moustache like one of the soldiers at the time of
Nicholas the First, and his shabby black coat had a most unpleasant
smell.

"Boum! Boum!" His voice seemed to come out of a barrel, when Ivanoff
introduced him to Yourii, who awkwardly shook hands with him, hardly
knowing what to say to such a person. He recollected, however, that for
him all men should be equal, so he politely gave precedence to the old
singer as they went in.

Ivanoff's lodging was more like an old lumber-room than a place for
human habitation, being very dusty and untidy. But when his host had
lighted the lamp, Yourii perceived that the walls were covered with
engravings of pictures by Vasnetzoff, and that what had seemed rubbish
were books piled up in heaps. He still felt somewhat ill at ease, and,
to hide this, he began to examine the engravings attentively.

"Do you like Vasnetzoff?" asked Ivanoff as, without waiting for an
answer, he left the room to fetch a plate. Sanine told Peter Ilitsch
that Semenoff was dead. "God rest his soul!" droned the latter. "Ah!
well, it's all over for him now."

Yourii glanced wistfully at him, and felt a sudden sympathy for the old
man.

Ivanoff now brought in bread, salted cucumbers, and glasses, which he
placed on the table that was covered with a newspaper. Then, with a
swift, scarcely perceptible movement, he uncorked the bottle, not a
drop of its contents being spilt.

"You can tell in a minute if a man knows what he's about," said
Ivanoff, with a self-complacent air, as he filled the glasses with the
greenish liquid.

"Now gentlemen," said he, raising his voice as he took up his glass.
"To the repose of the departed, &c.!"

With that they began to eat, and more vodka was consumed. They talked
little, and drank the more. Soon the atmosphere of the little room grew
hot and oppressive. Peter Ilitsch lighted a cigarette, and the air was
filled with the bluish fumes of bad tobacco. The drink and the smoke
and the heat made Yourii feel dizzy. Again he thought of Semenoff.

Yourii at once tried to imagine what living for ever would be like. He
saw an endless grey stripe that stretched aimlessly away into space, as
though swept onward from one wave to another. All conception of colour,
sound and emotion was blurred and dimmed, being merged and fused in one
grey turbid stream that flowed on placidly, eternally. This was not
life, but everlasting death. The thought of it horrified him.

"Upon whom does it not make an impression?" asked Yourii. Ivanoff shook
his head vaguely, and began to tell Ilitsch about Semenoff's last
moments. It was now insufferably close in the room. Yourii watched
Ivanoff, as his red lips sipped the vodka that shone in the lamplight.
Everything seemed to be going round and round.

"Ah! well," continued Yourii, "one has heard all that before. Say what
you will, death is death, horrible in itself, and sufficient to rob a
man of all pleasure in life who thinks of such a violent and inevitable
end to it. What is the meaning of life?"

"Nature! Ha, ha!" Sanine laughed feebly, and waved his hand in
derision. "It is customary, I know, to say that Nature is perfect. The
truth is, that Nature is just as defective as mankind. Without any
great effort of imagination any of us could present a world a hundred
times better than this one. Why should we not have perpetual warmth and
light, and a garden ever verdant and ever gay? As to the meaning of
life, of course it has a meaning of some sort, because the aim implies
the march of things; without an aim all would be chaos, But this aim
lies outside the pale of our existence, in the very basis of the
universe. That is certain. We cannot be the origin nor the end of the
universe. Our role is a passive, and auxiliary one. By the mere fact of
living we fulfil our mission. Our life is necessary; thus our death is
necessary also."

"How should I know?" replied Sanine, "and, besides, what do I care? My
life means my sensations, pleasant or unpleasant; what is outside those
limits; well, to the deuce with it all! Whatever hypothesis we may like
to invent, it will always remain an hypothesis upon which it would be
folly to construct life. Let him who likes worry about it; as for me, I
mean to live!"

"But you believe in God, don't you?" said Ilitsch, looking at Sanine
with bleared eyes. "Nowadays nobody believes in anything--not even in
that which is easy of belief."

Sanine laughed. "Yes, I believe in God. As a child I did that, and
there's no need to dispute or to affirm any reasons for doing so. It's
the most profitable thing, really, for if there is a God, I offer Him
sincere faith, and, if there isn't, well, all the better for me."

"On what, then?" asked Yourii, languidly. "A--a--a! I mustn't drink any
more," he thought to himself, as he drew his hand across his cold,
moist brow. If Sanine made any reply he did not hear it. His head was
in a whirl, and for a moment he felt quite overcome.

"I believe that God exists," continued Sanine, "though I am not
certain, absolutely certain. But whether He does or not, I do not know
Him, nor can I tell what He requires of me. How could I possibly know
this, even though I professed the most ardent faith in Him? God is God,
and, not being human, cannot be judged by human standards. His created
world around us contains all; good and evil, life and death, beauty and
ugliness--everything, in fact, and thus all sense and all exact
definition are lost to us, for His sense is not human, nor His ideas of
good and evil human, either. Our conception of God must always be an
idolatrous one, and we shall always give to our fetish the physiognomy
and the garb suitable to the climatic conditions of the country in
which we live. Absurd, isn't it."

"Then, what is the good of living?" asked Yourii, as he pushed back his
glass in disgust, "or of dying, either?"

"One thing I know," replied Sanine, "and that is, that I don't want my
life to be a miserable one. Thus, before all things, one must satisfy
one's natural desires. Desire is everything. When a man's desires
cease, his life ceases, too, and if he kills his desires, then he kills
himself."

"Then ... they must just be evil," replied Sanine blandly, as he looked
Yourii full in the face with his clear, blue eyes.

Ivanoff raised his eyebrows incredulously and said nothing. Yourii was
silent also. For some reason or other he felt embarrassed by those
clear, blue eyes, though he tried to keep looking at them.

For a few moments there was complete silence, so that one could plainly
hear a night-moth desperately beating against the window-pane. Peter
Ilitsch shook his head mournfully, and his drink-besotted visage
drooped towards the stained, dirty newspaper. Sanine smiled again. This
perpetual smile irritated and yet fascinated Yourii.

As Yourii shut the door he heard Sanine saying to Ilitsch, "Of course
you're not like children; they can't distinguish good from bad; they
are simple and natural; and that is why they--" Then the door was
closed, and all was still.

High in the heavens shone the moon, and the cool night-air touched
Yourii's brow. All seemed beautiful and romantic, and as he walked
through the quiet moonlit streets the thought to him was dreadful that
in some dark, silent chamber Semenoff lay on a table, yellow and stiff.
Yet, somehow, Yourii could not recall those grievous thoughts that had
recently oppressed him, and had shrouded the whole world in gloom. His
mood was now of one tranquil sadness, and he felt impelled to gaze at
the moon. As he crossed a white deserted square he suddenly thought of
Sanine.

Annoyed to think that there was a man whom he, Yourii, could not
instantly define, he felt a certain malicious pleasure in disparaging
him.

"A phrase-maker, that's all he is! Formerly the fellow posed as a
pessimist, disgusted with life and bent upon airing impossible views of
his own; now, he's trifling with animalism."

From Sanine Yourii's thoughts reverted to himself. He came to the
conclusion that he trifled with nothing but that his thoughts, his
sufferings, his whole personality, were original, and quite different
from those of other men.

This was most agreeable; yet something seemed to be missing. Once more
he thought of Semenoff. It was grievous to know that he should never
set eyes upon him again, and though he had never felt any affection for
Semenoff, he now had become near and dear to him. Tears rose to his
eyes. He pictured the dead student lying in the grave, a mass of
corruption, and he remembered these words of his:

"You'll be living, and breathing this air, and enjoying this moonlight,
and you'll go past my grave where I lie."

"Here, under my feet, like human beings, too," thought Yourii, looking
down at the dust. "I am trampling on brains, and hearts, and human
eyes! Oh!... And I shall die, too, and others will walk over me,
thinking just as I think now. Ah! before it is too late, one must live,
one must live! Yes; but live in the right way, so that not a moment of
one's life be lost. Yet how is one to do that?"

The market-place lay white and bare in the moonlight. All was silent in
the town.

Never more shall singer's lute
Tidings of him tell.

Yourii hummed this softly to himself. Then he said, aloud: "How
tedious, sad, and dreadful it all is!" as if complaining to some one.
The sound of his own voice alarmed him, and he turned round to see if
he had been overheard. "I am drunk," he thought.